


Chicago Discovered

by WPAdmirer



Series: Chicago Stories I [2]
Category: ER, The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WPAdmirer/pseuds/WPAdmirer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Carter has met Walter Skinner at a hotel in Chicago. Walter invites him to stay with him for the weekend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicago Discovered

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTES: I got tired of waiting for some good John Carter slash, and there's never enough Skinner fic to suit me.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: It's not the author's intention to infringe upon or profit from the characters created and owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions or the Fox Network, nor Warner Brothers and NBC. Skinner and Carter were borrowed temporarily and returned almost immediately.
> 
> SPECIAL THANKS: To KiMeriKal and Crysothemis for beta reading and friendship.

John Carter could feel the smooth porcelain where his hands gripped the sides of the sink. His forehead rested against the cool glass of the mirror. His eyes were closed. The evening was not working out the way it was supposed to. He was supposed to have dinner with Gamma. A little dinner, a little conversation, a chance to convince her that he should be invited to Thanksgiving dinner. All he'd wanted was to spend Thanksgiving with his family. But best laid plans had gone slightly astray. Make that majorly astray. And the person on the other side of the bathroom door was definitely, but definitely, not family.

Maybe if he didn't think about that he'd calm down. He could try to remember where his parents were. That was always a good puzzle. He thought they were in the Ukraine, maybe. His sister in London. He was pretty sure. His grandparents were the only ones who ever seemed to be in Chicago. And Chase. Chase didn't travel anymore. Chase spent his days trying to learn to hold a fork again.

John Carter sighed.

His grandmother hadn't invited him to Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, she made it damn clear he wasn't wanted. She'd left him sitting at the hotel bar feeling like an abandoned puppy. An abandoned puppy who'd been kicked.

Then he'd bumped the guy next to him, soaking him in twenty-year-old scotch. Smooth move, that one. Somehow that had caused him to end up having dinner with the guy. Who turned out to be really, really nice. John had enjoyed talking to him. At him. Yeah, more at him. He'd done like a one hour monologue on everything you always wanted to know about the ER but had better sense than to ask. And the guy's eyes hadn't glazed over.

So he'd come upstairs to have a nightcap. This Walter Skinner turns out to be an Assistant Director with the fucking FBI, for God's sake. He'd also turned out to be understanding and gentle and .…What had he gotten himself into?

Now John Carter found himself standing in the bathroom of a hotel room in downtown Chicago afraid to let go of the sink or open his eyes. Afraid to think about the man on the other side of the door. Afraid to think about his unrelenting hard-on.

There was a soft tap at the door. "Are you okay?"

John cleared his throat and turned around. He walked to the door and opened it.

Walter Skinner filled the doorway. His hands rested on either side of the doorframe. Even though he couldn't be more than an inch or so taller than John, he seemed much bigger. Everything about him was massive. His wide shoulders, his huge hands. His eyes looked black in the dim light from the room.

"It's okay to change your mind."

John shook his head. "No. I haven't changed my mind."

Walter looked amused. "You were in there for a while."

"Sorry."

"It's all right."

Walter stepped away from the doorway. He'd taken off his suitcoat and his tie. The collar of his white shirt was open, revealing a hint of the muscles underneath. His chest was covered with hair, John noted. He stopped and put his hand on his forehead. He felt a little light-headed. Shit. Fainting would certainly not be the coolest move he'd ever managed with someone he was about to go to bed with.

John felt his breaths coming in short gasps. He was hyperventilating. He knew he was hyperventilating, but he absolutely couldn't stop. He felt Walter's hands on his shoulders pushing him down to sit on the bed. The bed had been turned down. Oh shit. John bent over and put his head down, close to his knees.

"Would you like some water?"

"I don't think water will do the trick."

He felt the bed sink next to him and the gentle touch of a large hand on his back. It moved in a slow pattern up and down his spine. It felt warm. It felt…safe.

"Maybe you should go home," Walter's deep voice was soft.

John looked at him as panic hit like a sledgehammer. Walter had changed his mind. He knew it was a mistake. He didn't want him. Either. "I don't have a home to go to," he said quickly.

"You have to live somewhere."

"A dorm. I live in a dorm. I'm broke and I took a job as a resident assistant so I'd have a place to live. There's no one there. The whole building's empty. Don't make me leave." Oh, shit, had he really just said that? It was the truth, though. He didn't want to leave. He was scared, yes, but shit, he'd never done this before. He'd been scared the first time he'd been with a woman. Well, a girl. She'd been older than him, but she was still very young, and he'd been scared shitless because he didn't know what to do, exactly.

Walter was smiling at him. He leaned forward and John felt the man's mouth press against his. A wetness touching his lips, coaxing them to open. Next the sweep of tongue around his mouth, taking possession of his very breath. When they broke finally broke apart John gasped for air.

Walter didn't give him time to think. He pushed John's jacket off, then loosened the knot of his tie, pulling it through the tunnel of his button-down collar with a quick swoosh of fabric on fabric. He unbuttoned the first button of John's shirt. Then he leaned forward and kissed him again.

John tasted scotch. Good scotch and something else. Something hot and smoky and nice.

Walter undid two more buttons, then slid his hand beneath the material, running his palm across John's chest. Fingertips found one of his nipples and teased it lightly. John felt it stiffen, along with the rest of his body.

Walter continued undressing him, taking the shirt off, then kneeling on the floor and removing his shoes and socks. He held each foot as he exposed it, stroking it first on top and then on the bottom. He spread John's legs and knelt between them, his hands opening the button of his pants. He pressed his hand against John's chest making him lean back on his elbows. Then he drew the zipper of the dress slacks down.

"Raise up," Walter said.

John raised his hips and Walter dragged the pants down. He moved back, grabbed the cuffs and slid them the rest of the way off John's legs. His hands touched John's knees, pushing them apart so that he could kneel between them again.

John's erection tented his boxers. He wanted Walter to touch it. It was so easy to sit here and let the man touch him. Walter leaned forward, kissing John's neck just beneath his left ear. He rubbed his face against John's beard. John pushed against him, wanting contact, enjoying the sensation. He felt Walter's hands moved over his body, stroking down his sides, brushing his nipples, trailing down the outside then up the inside of his thighs.

Walter's tongue made a slow loop across the outer fold of John's ear. Then he whispered, "I want you to undress me."

John felt a little thrill. He shivered.

Walter rocked back on his heels, stood up, and waited.

John looked up at Walter. Damn. The man was not going to let him be completely passive about this. If he chose, John knew he could put his clothes back on this minute and walk out of the room and Walter Skinner would stand there and watch him go. If he wanted to stay, he would have to be an active participant in his own…what? Seduction? De-virginization? That could not be a word.

Walter still waited.

John stood up and began to unbutton Walter's shirt. He tried to ignore his trembling fingers. The crisp white material pealed away from his chest and arms like a layer on a croissant. Walter's skin was golden, and the hair that covered it dark. John reached out and ran one palm across Walter's chest. The muscles were hard. Unconsciously he ran the same hand across his own chest, feeling the almost hairless skin, and realizing he could feel bones instead of muscles.

He started to unfasten the pants, then looked down and saw the shoes. It would be better to take the shoes and socks off first, then the pants. It would be difficult, though, to take the shoes off, and almost impossible to remove the socks with Walter standing.

"Thinking?"

John nodded. "I need you to sit down."

Walter smiled and sat on the edge of the bed.

With concentration and precision, John knelt on the floor and removed Walter's wing-tips and socks. As his hands touched the bare feet of the man he was struck by how perfect they were. Wide like his hands, but the skin was smooth and the toes straight. Most of the feet he saw in the ER were damaged, ugly, diseased even.

"You have beautiful feet," John said without looking up. He heard the rumble of a smothered laugh.

"No one's ever said that before."

John still could not bring himself to look at the man. "Doesn't change the fact that you do have beautiful feet."

Long, thick fingers touched his chin, raising his face until he was staring directly into Walter's eyes.

"Thank you."

They sat like that for a moment, then Walter's hand dropped away. John took a deep breath and rose up on his knees to reach the waist of the pants. He loosened the button and pulled the zipper down. As the pants opened John saw the ridges of old scars just above the elastic of the man's briefs. As he pulled them off his legs he saw more scars radiating out from the groin and down the thighs.

John stood and carefully folded the pants, laying them across the valet at the end of the dresser. He turned back to Walter, his eyes drawn to the white briefs and the scars. "Stand up, " he said softly.

Walter stood and John hooked his fingers under the elastic waistband and pulled the underwear down, across Walter's erection, down his legs to his ankles. Walter stepped out of the briefs and John picked them up, laying them carefully on the dresser near the valet. He turned back to Walter and began to trace the lines with his finger tips. The wounds were old. The scars white with age in some places. One scar, higher on his abdomen was newer. It's tone slightly pink. "This one is newer."

"Couple of years old."

"These others?"

"Long time ago."

"You shouldn't be alive."

"I wasn't."

John nodded. For reasons he didn't understand he knew that there was something true about that. He'd been torn open. His intestines must have been perforated a dozen times or more. His fingers traced the lines up and then he saw finer, smaller scars under the hair on the chest. Less visible, obviously they'd received some post-operative care to make them less extreme. Liver, stomach, at least one lung were involved. "You were revived."

"I came back."

John looked at the man's face. It was broad like his chest, and hands and feet. Dark eyes, a strong chin with a slight cleft. He wasn't handsome in a classic way, but there was a strength implied, a directness.

Walter's erection seemed to point at John. He was uncircumcised, the rosy glans rising out of the cowl of foreskin. It was perfectly in proportion to the rest of him.

"What next?" John asked.

When Walter Skinner smiled there was something entirely changed about him. His features seemed to soften, the eyes became lighter in color. He reached down and took John's clothing from the bed, laying it across one of the chairs on top of his overcoat. Then he got into the bed, moving over to leave space next to him.

"Come here."

John froze for a few seconds then he found himself walking to the bed. He sat on the edge, drew his legs up and pushed them under the bedspread. He was sitting now. Sitting next to Walter in the bed. Wearing nothing but his boxers. He let his mind cast about for a moment, deciding how he felt about it. There wasn't any discomfort. Nervousness, yes. This didn't seem wrong. Odd, yes.

"Thinking again?" Walter's voice was close to his ear.

"Yes."

"Come to any conclusions?"

"This is okay. So far."

He actually felt Walter's smile against the side of his face. He could feel his breath on his skin and blowing the hairs of his beard. Walter's tongue traced a line down the side of his face, then moved to his ear, penetrating the folds gently.

"God, that undoes me," John whispered.

"I noticed."

Walter's hand slid under the covers and found John's erection beneath the thin cotton material. He grasped it, squeezing, and John groaned. His hands gripped the sheets beneath him, so tightly he vaguely wondered if they would tear.

Walter captured his mouth again, and this time he kissed back avidly. His tongue sought out Walter's, pressing their mouths together harder. Walter's other hand grabbed the back of his head and held him so that he could not break off the kiss. John finally realized he could get little breaths through his nose, because it was clear that the man was not going to let him go.

The hand working his erection had pulled it through the fly so it was skin on skin, and the hot, dry softness of Walter's palm created an almost painful friction against the shaft and head of his penis. Almost but not quite. His arousal was intense and probably nothing short of a cattle prod was going to make it abate.

Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking, he chanted silently and suddenly Walter pulled him down, making him lie full-length. The bedspread and top sheet were thrown aside and Walter was on top of him, covering his body with heat and electric contact. His boxers disappeared, maybe torn off, he didn't know. All he felt was the thick arms and legs, the muscles that encircled him and the wetness and pressure of Walter's mouth on his. The man's erection pressed against his, Walter's hand gathering both together between their bodies, squeezing them, stroking. His hips grinding against John's with an urgent rhythm.

Walter broke away from his mouth and John threw back his head to gasp for air, exposing his neck to kisses and bites. It was like being under attack, slightly frightening, out of his control. John had never had sexual contact with someone who was physically stronger than he was and the intensity of it was near to overwhelming. But the pleasure of it…

"Jesus!"

Walter slowed down, pulling away.

"Where are you going?" John asked. He could not stop now, no way.

"We have all night." Walter kissed his lips gently, keeping his body against John's but slowing down his movements, giving them both time to cool off. "You're in bed with an old man. I have to make it last."

John reached up with both hands and pulled Walter's face to his, kissing his mouth hard, driving his tongue back, deep toward the man's throat. Walter pulled away slightly and they rolled, finding themselves with John on top and Walter on the bottom suddenly.

John laughed. "I'm not going to let you slow down." He moved his hips hard against Walter's, forcing their erections to slide against their sweating bodies.

Walter grabbed John's buttocks in both hands and held him against his body. "Really," he answered softly.

John could only nod. All the blood had left his brain and was gathering in his groin. If he got any harder, any more turned-on, there would be no blood being pumped by his heart and he would arrest and die. He wondered if Walter knew CPR? Probably. An Assistant Director at the FBI probably knew all kinds of things…"JESUS, GOD!" John shouted. He was wrong, he could speak if correctly prompted.

That was a finger. A thick finger. The penetration was both a burning pain and a flash of sexual pleasure so intense it made his head feel like it was going to explode. He laid his head against Walter's chest and tried not to move.

"Not good?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. Give me a minute."

Walter obediently remained perfectly still. John could hear his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel the heat and thickness of the man's erection against his abdomen. He could also feel the man's finger inside him.

"Do it again," he whispered.

Walter's finger moved again. An electric charge of delight shot straight up his spine and exploded in his brain and his groin at the same time. John heard himself make noise and his body arched against Walter's.

"Oh, my God."

"Good?"

"Yeah. Shit."

John kissed him again, slower. Walter set up a gentle rhythm bringing his body against John's, their erections colliding, rubbing in the sweaty heat between them. Once again the pace increased and this time Walter didn't try to slow it down. They came almost simultaneously. John could feel Walter's growling vibrating inside his chest. That meant the high pitched cry must be his. There was a lot of noise.

John could feel Walter's heart racing, matching his own. They both panted. Semen coated their bellies, making them stick together. Walter's thumb lazily stroked John's hip. John pressed his face against Walter's neck, feeling the pulse there, feeling the warmth. It was nice. The cool air of the room was starting to feel chilly against sweaty skin.

Walter pulled away, rolling onto his back. He sighed and then got up, pulling John up with him. "Come on."

John followed him numbly. His brain still not functioning, his body on automatic pilot. Walter took him into the bathroom, turned on the shower and set the temperature of the water. He stepped into the tub, then pulled John in after him.

John leaned against Walter's chest and let the man wash him. The water felt good. So did the soapy washcloth as it moved across his body. Then Walter poured shampoo into his hands and pushed John's head under the spray. His fingers massaged John's skull as he washed the hair. It felt so good.

Walter leaned him against the wall and stepped into the water. John turned his head and realized that Walter was washing himself. He stood up and took the washcloth from his hands. Then he soaped it again and took his time moving it over the man's body.

He was magnificent. Obviously he lifted weights. No one had muscles like these without lifting weights. But it wasn't just the muscles. It was his shape, his size, his touch. After Walter was covered with soap, John set the washcloth aside and used his bare hands to rinse him clean. His palms brushed the water across the broad planes of his back and chest, across the curves of his thighs and calves, biceps and forearms. He gently rinsed the scarred abdomen, allowing his fingers to trace the evidence of death that decorated Walter's body.

He picked up the shampoo and nudged Walter under the showerhead. The man's smooth scalp felt warm beneath his fingers. He carefully washed the dark hair that edged the man's head. After he rinsed away the suds he leaned forward and kissed the bare skin on top.

"That was nice."

They dried each other's bodies and then went back to the bed. The sheets were rumpled and smelled like sex, but miraculously there wasn't much mess otherwise. Walter smoothed the bed and pulled up the top sheet, blanket and spread.

They curled up together, John's head resting on Walter's shoulder, their arms around each other.

"I have no idea how I got here," John said suddenly.

"Any regrets?"

"No."

"Confused?"

"Yeah, but I'll live with it."

Walter laughed and John could hear the sound in the man's chest beneath his head.

"Goodnight, John Carter."

Walter was asleep long before John felt himself drift off.


End file.
